


no glass slipper will ever fit

by riots



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Families of Choice, Meeting the Parents, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24603124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riots/pseuds/riots
Summary: Krem is sliding over a tankard of ale when Trevelyan hears a voice behind her. “Evelyn?” She hasn’t heard that voice in years and her back straightens instantly, instinctively. Her tankard hits the tabletop with a clatter, and the Chargers turn to look at her.“You alright, boss?” Krem asks.“Oh, Andraste’s sweet arse,” Trevelyan murmurs.“Evelyn, darling, is that you?”turns out, it's finally time for the iron bull to meet trevelyan's parents.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Iron Bull
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	no glass slipper will ever fit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



“You’ve been a great help,” Prince Sebastian Vael says, with an elegant tilt of his head. Growing up in the Marches, Trevelyan had heard plenty of stories about the wayward Vael son, but it seems that he’s grown into his responsibilities. She wouldn’t be able to match up the man in front of her with the gossip about three barmaids and a pirate, that’s for certain. “I’m grateful to have this chance to work with you once again.”

Trevelyan laughs a little. “I’ve got a bit less sway these days, unfortunately,” she says. Less of an arm, too. It’s been a few years since the disbanding of the Inquisition and the events at Halamshiral and it certainly feels a lot different. She’s not in charge, for one, and it’s been such a _relief_ after the years she spent bearing the weight of all of Thedas on her shoulders. “I’m just glad it was such an uneventful job.”

Prince Sebastian had reached out to them on Varric’s recommendation and on the strength of their reputation, and requested their presence for an escort to Orlais. His commitment to supporting Kirkwall had been, ah, controversial, and he wanted to make sure that his trip to attend a diplomatic assembly went pleasantly.

And it had. The most adventure they’d seen was when Rocky got seasick on the trip across the Waking Sea. Disappointing, by Chargers’ standards, but Trevelyan’s gained a new appreciation of the mundane in the past few years. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Prince Sebastian says warmly, and then with a quick nod, he shuts the door behind him, and Trevelyan turns back to the plaza, her pockets heavier with coin.

When she was a child, this certainly wasn’t the life she’d imagined for herself. The Trevelyans had a reputation to maintain, of course. Evander was the heir, and he would inherit. Maxwell had been safely ensconced at the tower in Ostwick, and Evelyn had spent most of her upbringing being told that she would one day serve the family in the Chantry, be it as a Templar or a sister herself. It was a longstanding tradition, after all. 

But then came the Conclave, and with it the Breach, and Trevelyan hasn’t seen her parents in several years now. There is a part of her that regrets that, she supposes, but a greater part of her that is _happy_ in an uncomplicated way she hasn’t been since she was a child. She is a mercenary, it's _her_ reputation that draws in the work, not her parents’. She fights side by side with friends, and she has the love of a good man. 

It’s not what she’d pictured as a girl, but it’s the life _she_ chose, and she’d choose it again, every time. 

It’s springtime in Val Royeaux, and the bazaar is abuzz with activity. Trevelyan has to push her way through the crowds of extravagantly dressed nobles to the tavern, where the Chargers await. They’ve commandeered a table in the corner, and are making more noise than the rest of the noble patrons, drawing eyes. She grins. “We’re eating well tonight, boys!” she calls, and she tosses the purse on the table. They erupt in cheers.

Krem snatches up the coin before any of the rest of them can get their sticky fingers on it. Years of practice. “Good thing, too,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair. “Rocky’s been doing his best to chew his way through the entire city.”

Rocky, hunched over another plate of over-priced Orlesian food, shrugs. “I couldn’t eat for a week,” he complains. “I’ve got time to make up for.” Trevelyan is pretty sure that’s not how that works, but she just laughs. 

Next to Rocky, Stitches kicks out a chair for her to sit, and she throws herself down to wait with them for Bull’s return. He’s off lining up their next job, a possible bandit clear-out mission that promises to have more action. The Chargers are professional, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t get a little bit restless when all they have to do is stand around menacingly with a sword. 

Krem is sliding over a tankard of ale when Trevelyan hears a voice behind her. “ _Evelyn_?” She hasn’t heard that voice in years and her back straightens instantly, instinctively. Her tankard hits the tabletop with a clatter, and the Chargers turn to look at her.

“You alright, boss?” Krem asks.

“Oh, Andraste’s sweet arse,” Trevelyan murmurs.

“Evelyn, darling, is that you?” A older woman is sweeping towards them, high-backed and assured. Like all the rest of the nobles in the bazaar, she’s dressed to the nines, though modestly so, a fashionable half-mask pinned to her face, and her hair piled high on her head. “Oh, thank the Maker!”

Steeling herself, Trevelyan stands again, turning slowly to meet the woman. “Hello, mother,” she says politely.

“ _Mother_?” Skinner hisses. “That old bag is - ” Her words cut off abruptly as Krem slaps a hand over her mouth. 

“Oh, my girl,” her mother says, and she sweeps Trevelyan into an unwilling hug. “We feared the worst! You never wrote, and your ambassador said she hadn’t heard from you in months!”

Trevelyan pats her mother on the back and waits for the hug to end. “I don’t have an ambassador anymore, mother,” she says. “The Inquisition is no more.” And Josephine no longer has any obligation to handle her communications or contacts. She doesn’t say what she _wants_ to: that even when she was safely ensconced in Skyhold, the letters from her family were few and far between, limited to pleasantries and requests on her time. 

“I heard,” her mother sniffs. She holds her hand tightly. “I’m sure that was very hard for you.” Behind her mask, her eyes, so like Trevelyan’s own, go wide. “Oh, Andraste, your _arm_.”

Trevelyan gently extricates herself. “It’s fine, mother,” she says, because it is. She’s had a few years to adjust to the loss, and while she certainly would find another hand useful in many situations, she’s no broken woman. Besides, Dagna made her a wonderful articulated prosthetic as a wedding gift. It had a hidden knife. She’d been delighted. She doesn’t wear it all the time, because it aches after a while, and because Bull had pointed out that the pinned sleeve reminds people of who she was and what she’d done. 

“Darling, what’s happened to you?” Her mother looks genuinely sad, but it grates on Trevelyan’s nerves. “You look - hmm.” Not like a Trevelyan, that’s certain. Her jacket is a very serviceable leather one she had made for her in Skyhold, though the sleeve had to be stitched back on after an encounter with a particularly saucy bogfisher on a job in Crestwood. Her boots are whole, but stained with mud and salt. She likes them. Her mother, apparently, does not.

“I’m working as a mercenary,” Trevelyan says, and she doesn’t miss the way her mother’s eyes widen and her hands flutter nervously. Her eyes flick to the Chargers at the table behind Trevelyan, watching the whole thing unfold. “It’s a living.”

“A mercenary? You poor thing,” her mother says, and Trevelyan hears Skinner scoff. “Why don’t you come home with me? It’s been ever so long since we saw you.”

Trevelyan rubs her hand across her face. “Have you heard of the Iron Bull’s Chargers?” she asks instead, and she takes a step back to give her a good view of the table. Rocky, mercifully, has wiped his face clean, and she can see Krem shoot Dalish and Skinner a hard look so that they’ll be good. She feels a surge of affection for them all. Her crew, her friends. “We’re very good.”

“Ma’am,” Krem says, his gaze flicking to Trevelyan, following her lead. Lady Trevelyan’s eyes narrow a little at his accent. 

“Charmed, I’m sure. Evelyn -”

Trevelyan abruptly feels very, very tired. “Sorry, mother,” she says. “I’m afraid we have another job lined up. I couldn’t possibly leave.” A half-truth at best, but a convenient one. She’d entertained the thought, now and then, of seeing her parents again, but this was never the plan. 

“Then dinner,” her mother says decisively. Trevelyan knows that tone, knows better than to argue with it. It was the same tone her mother had used when she’d told Evander to stop sneaking out to play with the children in the alienage, the same tone she’d used to tell Trevelyan she was going to the Conclave. It was easier, as always, to give in. 

Trevelyan sighs. “I suppose,” she says. 

“Wonderful,” her mother says, and she captures her hand once more, clasping it between hers. “Tonight, then? At our usual Orlesian home. Oh, it will be _so_ nice to catch up. I have so much to tell you!” Trevelyan gives her a smile, because she knows it’s what her mother expects. “Oh, and Evelyn?” Before she leaves her, Lady Trevelyan turns to speak over her shoulder. “Do clean up a bit. You’re my daughter, after all.”

She sweeps away again and Trevelyan relaxes, finally. 

Behind her, the Chargers are silent for a moment. “Didn’t know your name was Evelyn,” Rocky says finally.

“Sweet Maker,” Stitches mutters.

“You good, boss?” Krem asks, and Trevelyan pulls her chair out and sits down heavily, making an immediate grab for her tankard. It’s already half empty. She glances across the table and Dalish looks suddenly, suspiciously innocent.

“Sure,” she sighs. “It’ll be fine.” She looks down at her hand on the table, and the gleaming silver band around her wrist. Oh, damn. “I’ll be fine. Right?” Across the table, Grim raises his eyebrows at her and downs half his ale. “Thanks for the moral support.”

“And what do you need moral support for?” One big hand lands on her shoulder, and Trevelyan immediately turns into the touch. Bull is always so silent when he moves, surprising for the size of him. “Did I miss something juicy?”

Krem holds up the purse of coin Trevelyan collected earlier, jingling it. “Got paid,” he says. “That’s the important part.”

“My mother is in Val Royeaux,” Trevelyan says, and she rubs a hand over her eyes again. “We’re to have dinner tonight.”

The Iron Bull tips his head, raises an eyebrow. “Ah,” he says.

“Yep,” she agrees. She slowly slides forward until her head is resting against the table. “Yay.” Someone, probably Dalish, slowly pulls her tankard from her grip. 

“Cheer up, boss,” Krem says, and Stitches gives her shoulder a none-too-gentle pat. “It’ll be over soon.” 

“We could come as backup!” Rocky says hopefully. “Does your mother have an Orlesian chef?”

“No,” Trevelyan and Bull say simultaneously. 

Skinner clicks her tongue. “Boring,” she complains. 

The barmaid comes to tend to them, and the Chargers get distracted by ordering another round. Bull finds a sturdy chair and nudges Stitches over to make space next to Trevelyan. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

Under the table, she folds her hand into his. “Surprised, mostly,” she admits. “I wasn’t prepared to see her right now.”

“We can leave,” Bull says. “No questions. The boys would understand.”

It’s a tempting proposition. Seeing her mother again had just been a reminder of how much of her childhood had been dictated to her. No choices, just expectations of the role she would fill. Still…”No,” Trevelyan says. “We’ll go. A final goodbye, shall we say?” She wants the freedom she’s come to enjoy, first as the Inquisitor, then as a mercenary, and she can’t let her mother reel her back in.

“‘We’?” Bull asks. More ale is slammed down in front of them, but Trevelyan is fairly certain she wants her wits about her for tonight. “You sure?”

“Bull, I married you.” She traces her thumb across the unbroken silver bracelet around his wrist, matching hers. “I chose you. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.” She could go alone, of course. It’s not as though she particularly wants to drag anyone else into her family’s nonsense, but she wants him at her side. It would be easier to hide him from her parents, but it wouldn’t be honest, and she’s not ashamed. He looks at her for one long minute, expression unreadable, and then he smiles, lifting her hand to his mouth and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “But we’re not bringing the Chargers.”

“Could be fun,” Bull rumbles, smile broadening. 

“Don’t tempt me,” she says dryly. “Or them.” She watches Dalish make a play for her abandoned tankard of ale, and Trevelyan rolls her eyes and pushes it over to her.

“Oh, but we’d be on our best behavior,” Krem assures her, and his lips rise in a smirk. “Your mother wouldn’t mind an extra six mouths to feed, would she?”

“Maker,” Trevelyan laughs. The thought of her mother entertaining the Chargers over dinner is so absurd she almost wants to agree. Sadly, being the Inquisitor taught her a lot about diplomacy, and getting through excruciating dinners as quickly as possible. “You just want a free meal.”

Stitches’ eyes are amused over his tankard. “We’re men of simple pleasures,” he tells her.

“Alright,” Bull says. “One dinner. How hard could it be?”

“Hard enough,” Trevelyan says. “And...you should probably wear a shirt.”

Bull narrows his eye at her. “Shit,” he says. “Can I change my mind?”

Trevelyan laughs and squeezes his hand in hers. 

-

The sun has gone down, and Trevelyan pulls at the hem of her jacket, shifting her weight from foot to foot at the door. She’s cleaned up, in Charger fashion: she’s got her best boots on, stiff and shiny, and her nicest clothes, a well-made pair of trousers and a new jacket. She’s got no use for frippery anymore, and she certainly wasn’t going to waste good coin on one night with her mother, so this is the best she’s got. She thinks it’s suitable, really. It’s _her_ , in the way that no ornate Orlesian dress could be. 

The Iron Bull, contrary to popular belief, does have a few tricks up his sleeves, rarely as he wears them. Tonight, he wears a black shirt, tailored for him, as they certainly can’t just _find_ clothing that fits the breadth of his shoulders. As usual, he looks completely at ease, despite complaining the whole time she was buttoning it up for him. He’s got his sleeves rolled up and his silver band is obvious against his pale wrist. “We can still leave,” he suggests. “Make a runner. No one has to know.”

She’d know, though. And as nice as it might be to escape this now, she doesn’t want to lose that connection, not entirely. She’d missed her brother’s wedding, what with all of Thedas being threatened by a hole in the sky, and she’d be upset, she thinks, if she missed out entirely on the lives of her nieces and nephews. A small concession then, to suffer through some discomfort now. “No, we’re going,” she says, and she raps smartly on the door to ensure she can’t let herself back out. “And afterwards, we’re getting ripping drunk with the Chargers, and celebrating the end of this day.”

“Atta girl,” Bull rumbles, and he pulls her close to kiss the top of her head. 

The door swings open to reveal a somber man in an impeccable suit. “Lady Evelyn,” the steward intones, and he steps neatly back to allow them entrance. “A pleasure to see you once more.” His eyes are warm as he bows to them, and he doesn’t even bat an eye at Bull. 

“Simeon,” Trevelyan says, and she dips in a quick bow in return. “You look well. I hope the year has been treating you well.” She always liked Simeon. He was warm and professional, and Trevelyan had always remembered how he looked the other way when she’d slipped away from her mother’s endless diplomatic dinners to read in the gardens.

“And you,” he says. He folds his hands behind his back. “I’ll fetch your mother. Shall I announce your...guest?” He glances up at Bull, but his expression betrays no judgement. He’s simply had long years of working for her mother to understand exactly how she’ll react to the sight of him. 

“No,” Trevelyan replies. “Let me. Thank you, Simeon.”

With another bow, Simeon slips from the hall to find her mother. “So,” Bull says. He’s standing carefully away from her, she notices. “How are we gonna play this?”

Trevelyan frowns. “What?” she asks.

“Do you want me to be your upright Tal Vashoth gentleman?” Bull draws himself up, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his chin high, and then bows with the grace of an Orlesian noble raised to it. “Or am I a Qunari savage, leading you astray?” His shoulders drop, and so does his brow, his expression settling into something sullen, unimpressed. He pops the first button on his shirt and then crosses his arms over his broad chest.

Ben-Hassrath training. Trevelyan melts a little, knowing that he’d play whatever role she asks of him for this night, be whoever she needs him to be. But she doesn’t want that. “I just want _you_ with me,” she says finally, and she pulls his big hand into hers. “I think that would make me happiest of all: just to present myself as who I am, not who my mother intends for me to be.”

Bull curls a hand around her face, and she leans into it. “I just want to make this easier on you,” he says quietly. Trevelyan doesn’t talk about her family much, but she spilled all the details to Bull early on, when they got serious. It’s not as though her childhood was _awful_ per se, it just...wasn’t really hers. Her father had busied himself with the business of being a bann, and her mother had been less interested in knowing what her awkward, over-sized daughter _wanted_ and more with what she should be. A proper, pious Trevelyan. 

Trevelyan turns her face into Bull’s touch and kisses his calloused palm. “Let’s just get it over with,” she suggests. “No masks, but no provocation.” A younger Trevelyan might have wanted to piss her parents off, just to pull a reaction out of them, but now, the thought just makes her tired. Is this what growing up is? She had to do a lot of growing to become Inquisitor, after all. 

“Alright.” Bull pulls his hand away just as footsteps approach from the stairs. Her mother, making a bit of a grand entrance, as usual. 

“Evelyn, my darling.” Lady Trevelyan makes her way down the wide, ornate stairs, her skirts held daintily in her hand. The picture of grace. “So wonderful to see you once more.” As though she hadn’t seen her a few hours before. “And you look - well!” She takes in Bull, standing at Trevelyan’s shoulder, and then immediately dismisses him, her gaze swinging back to her daughter. “You’ve got a bodyguard?” She scoops Trevelyan’s arm up, hooking their elbows together. “How practical, my dear. You were the _Inquisitor_ , after all.”

Trevelyan hates the way she says it, like it was some badge bestowed upon her, not a post she accepted with no small thought. “Actually,” Trevelyan disentangles herself from her mother once more, “he’s not my personal guard.” She steps back and holds out her hand, and Bull smiles at her and takes it. “Mother, please meet Iron Bull. The Chargers are his company.” Her mother’s eyes linger on their hands, her smile souring. “And we’re married.”

At the top of the stairs, an elven serving girl claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. Trevelyan spares a second to share a conspiratorial smile with her. “You’re married.” Lady Trevelyan’s voice is flat, and she’s drawn away from her daughter, her expression turning distasteful. “To a Qunari.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Bull says.

“Bull is Tal Vashoth, actually,” Trevelyan says. She keeps her voice steady, and she grips Bull’s hand tightly. “Shall we head to the table?”

Her mother is looking at Bull now, _really_ looking at him: taking in the scars, the eyepatch, the enormous horns and shoulders. Trevelyan hopes she sees the softness of Bull’s eyes too, and the warmth of his smile. She doesn’t need her mother’s approval, and she certainly doesn’t expect it. But she’s her mother. There’s a part of her that will always hope.

“Yes,” her mother says after a moment. “Let Simeon take your, ah, coat.” Trevelyan slides her jacket off and hands it to Simeon with a quiet thank you. The shirt she wears underneath is plain but well-made, and coordinated with the one Bull wears, a neat touch he’d suggested. It’s not lost on her mother. “I suppose I’ll have them set an extra place for your, hmm. Partner.” As she strides ahead of them, Bull offers Trevelyan his elbow, and the two of them follow. 

It’s strange, returning here. The last time she was in this house, the family was summering in Val Royeaux to work on a trade deal, and to see if their mother could find a suitable bride candidate among the available Orlesian ladies. Evander was going to need a wife before he became bann, according to their parents. Trevelyan had been left to her own devices, ignored and mostly confined to the house. She remembers the gardens, and Simeon, but most of the rest of it is a blur.

“She seems nice,” Bull murmurs, as the servants swing the dining room doors open, and Trevelyan shoots him a look. “I’m just saying!” He winks.

He’s trying to loosen her up, remind her that he’s with her, every step of the way. She smiles at him. It’s working. “That still doesn’t count as a wink,” she tells him under her breath. Ahead of them, her mother snaps her fingers for a serving girl’s attention, and Trevelyan bristles a little. Strange how that once seemed so natural, and now she can’t stand her mother for it. 

“Sure it does,” Bull rumbles softly. His big hand closes around her wrist, right over her wedding band, drawing her attention back to him. “I am closing one eye in a deliberate way. That’s the very definition of a wink.”

At the head of the table, Bann Trevelyan sits, spectacles perched at the end of his nose, a glass of wine half empty. Trevelyan wonders if he’s always looked this old. “Ah, there you are, my dear.” He smiles at her, and Trevelyan feels like a child again, waiting patiently for her father to finally finish his work so she can get a moment with him. He stands stiffly, and rounds the table, holding his arms out.

She doesn’t hesitate to hug him. “Hello, father,” she says

“You look well,” he says. “I heard about what happened at the Exalted Council.” He gently turns her so he can see her empty sleeve, rolled and pinned at the spot where her arm ends. “It doesn’t pain you, I hope?”

“Not anymore,” she says honestly, and he nods, pleased. She reaches back, blindly, and Bull’s hand finds hers. “Father, I’d like you to meet someone.” Her father straightens, pushing his glasses up his nose and tipping his head back to get a good look at him. “This is the Iron Bull. He leads the Bull’s Chargers. They’re a mercenary group, I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”

“Ah, yes,” he agrees. “You do good work. A pleasure to meet you.” He bows to Bull. 

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Bull demurs.

“He’s my husband,” Trevelyan says. 

“Oh!” Bann Trevelyan takes a step back, blinking. “Well! Welcome to the family, I suppose.” It’s not enthusiasm, but it’s certainly not how her mother reacted, so Trevelyan will take it.

“Sit, sit,” her mother calls, gesturing to the now set table. “Dinner is almost ready.” Trevelyan looks at the narrow, high-backed chairs around the table, and she sighs. She glances at Bull, but he just shakes his head, wordless. He’ll suffer through, for her. Maker, but she’s grateful for him. 

Rocky suspected correctly: it seems her mother has an Orlesian chef on retainer. The first meal is a plate with a single cube of cheese, speared with a sprig of dill. “Do tell us about your wedding, darling,” her mother says. She refuses to spare even a look in Bull’s direction, as if she could will him out of her sight. “It must have been _dreadfully_ rushed if you couldn’t find the time to even invite your parents.”

It hadn’t been. It was, in fact, one of the most deliberate and planned-out decisions she’s ever made. Their friends had all been in attendance for the reception, of course, any excuse for Josephine to throw a party. The ceremony, however, was just them, the Chargers, and Leliana to officiate. They’d never done anything traditional, and they had no intentions to start it up now. If her mother had gotten involved, after she spent herself trying to talk Trevelyan out of it, she would have tried to insist on something extravagant and long, with a great deal of lip service paid to the Chantry. A nightmare, for either of them.

“We kept it very small,” Trevelyan says. Under the table, Bull’s hand sits heavy and warm on her knee. “It was rather spur of the moment.”

Her mother sniffs. “No other little surprises we should know about, then?” Her gaze darts from Trevelyan’s face and then down, making her insinuation incredibly clear. “I would hate to miss out on the happy moments in your life.”

Trevelyan chews on her cheese (is that...despair?) and politely doesn’t respond. She thinks of the letters she received in Skyhold, all empty platitudes and requests for the Inquisition to flex their influence on their behalf. She’d never been close to Evander, but even his messages had contained more warmth and genuine interest, and she still regrets missing his wedding. “No, mother,” she says. “We’re not having children.”

She can read the war on her mother’s face: half of her pleased that her daughter wouldn’t bear any mongrel Qunari child, half displeased that her daughter won’t fulfill her wifely duty. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she says at last.

“Your brother has one on the way,” Bann Trevelyan says. “You’ll be an aunt soon.” 

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Trevelyan says, and she means it. She knows that Evander had even more pressure put upon him than her, but he’d always thrived where she hadn’t, and he’d always been kind to her. “He’ll make a great father.”

“And his heir will assure the family name continues,” her mother says. “Since apparently, he’ll be the only one of you producing grandchildren.”

Trevelyan thanks the serving girl that comes to take her plate, and rubs a hand over her eyes. “Mother,” she sighs.

As the next course arrives, Bull tightens his hand on her leg, and turns to her father. “I understand you are the one who dealt with that minor raider fleet last summer,” he says, and her father glances at her mother before he leans in, clearly pleased to change the subject. 

“I spearheaded the defense, certainly, but the Trevelyans weren’t the only Ostwick family involved.” Their conversation turns to strategy of the kind that Trevelyan no longer has any interest in listening to, and she focuses on eating her food. It’s good, at least. 

Across the table, her mother’s expression is icy as she takes small, careful bites. Disappointed yet again. It surprises Trevelyan, how that cuts into her, even years into adulthood. She knew going into this dinner that she’d never get her mother’s approval, but she didn’t expect how much it would hurt, all over again. She taps against the top of Bull’s hand, and he turns it over, curling thick fingers around hers for a moment. 

She comforts herself with how her father seems to be getting along with Bull. He can’t have been expecting a Tal Vashoth for a son in law, and she knows he’s had very little interaction with any of them in general, but he seems animated in their conversation, speaking with his hands and pleased with how sharp Bull is, how he understands strategy.

The stalemate lasts through the main courses, Trevelyan and Bull speaking mainly to her father while her mother adds jabs when she can. She’s picked the wrong targets, however. Trevelyan is too tired of it to rise to the offense, and Bull has met more formidable foes than her. Eventually, as dessert is served, Lady Trevelyan stands. 

“Dreadfully sorry,” she says, and sounds anything but. “I’m afraid I must retire. So lovely to see you again.” She strides from the room and the door closes behind her with a resounding click.

At the head of the table, her father lays his fork down with a clatter. “I’m sorry, dear,” he says. “You know how she is. She’ll come around, I’m sure of it.”

She won’t. Trevelyan knows it, and he does too. And this is the heart of her distance from her father: he busied himself with his responsibilities and never had the spirit to push back against his wife. What would her life have been, if he had? If he’d been the support she’d needed? She supposed she’d never know. “I’m fine,” she says, because she is. She’s disappointed, but she’s used to that, from her parents. “Don’t worry, father.”

“Will you consider coming to stay for the summer?” he asks. “I’m certain Evander would love to see you, and Maxwell is due for a visit soon.”

Trevelyan would love to see her brothers again. She and Maxwell had been thick as thieves, before the templars had snatched him up, and she wants to meet Evander’s wife. But spending time in her childhood home with her mother, and without the Chargers? After a dinner like this, she’d much rather eat glass. “Oh, I’m afraid we’ve a few jobs lined up,” she says. “We’ll think about it.”

“Well, good,” her father says. He pushes his glasses up again and smiles at Bull. “I’d quite like to get to know my new son-in-law better.”

Trevelyan smiles, and it’s bittersweet.

When dinner is done, her father sees them to the door. “I’m glad you came,” he says earnestly. “Don’t forget to write!”

Simeon holds her jacket for her, and she slides her arms into it. “I won’t,” she says, and she finds she means it. Writing letters seems the perfect distance for her parents, especially with how they’re always on the move, and how long it takes for messengers to travel. “Be well, father.”

“And you.”

They’re left standing in the hall, and Bull exhales, scratching at his bad eye. “Shit,” he says. 

Trevelyan laughs. “Exactly,” she agrees.

As Bull does up the buttons on her jacket for her, Simeon steps back, ready to open the door. “If you need a new job, I know a lot of nobles with more manners,” Bull tells him.

Simeon looks between the two of them, bemused. “I shall...keep that in mind, serah.”

“Thank you, Simeon,” Trevelyan says, and she takes a moment to bow to him, sincerely. “You were always kind to me, and I’ve never forgotten it.”

“I - thank you, my lady.”

Night has well and truly fallen by now, and when they step out into the street once more, the lamps shine warm light down on them. “I liked him well enough, at least,” Bull says. “I see where you got your head for tactics from.”

Trevelyan groans and tips forward, her face buried in his chest. “Thank you,” she mutters, her face muffled against his shirt.

His big arms swing up to hold her close. “Of course, kadan,” he says. “I’d go anywhere you asked.” She can hear the grin in his voice. “Honestly, that wasn’t even as bad as the Fallow Mires. Smelled _way_ better.”

When she tips her head back to look at him, he leans down to kiss her, easy and deep. “Can we go get absolutely blitzed with the boys?” she asks him. 

“Anything for you,” Bull agrees, and with his arm around her, they make their way back towards the more interesting parts of town.

-

The tavern is in full swing when they open the door, but the noise only increases when they’re spotted. “They’re back!” Rocky bellows, standing on a chair, and Trevelyan laughs as he loses his footing and half of his ale as he recovers. She already feels the tension seeping from her limbs. _This_ is where she belongs.

“Boss!” Krem calls. “You didn’t leave us for a life of ease with the nobles. That’s a relief.”

Grim slides a chair out for her, and holds out a tankard of beer, smiling. “You were worried?” Trevelyan asks, all mock affront. 

“Not for a second,” Stitches scoffs.

“You wouldn’t leave us for that shem bitch,” Skinner says, and spits on the floor, much to the horror of the barmaid and amusement of Dalish. “ _We’re_ your family now.”

“You’re right,” Trevelyan says, and she lifts her ale to her lips. “And I love you all, you motley crew.”

Bull’s hand is warm on her shoulder as the Chargers roar their approval, and Trevelyan finally, finally, feels like she’s home.


End file.
